


Champions of the Just

by wyles77



Series: Canticle of Transfigurations [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15419754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyles77/pseuds/wyles77
Summary: Blessed are the peacekeepers…  Series of occasional one-shots detailing the adventures of the Hands of the Divine, beginning with the latter days of the Fifth Blight. Canticle of Transfigurations canon-line, rated for mature themes, violence, and darkspawn. (F)Warden/Leliana pairing, with frequent Hero guest roles.





	1. With Passion'd Breath

**9:31 Dragon – the outskirts of Denerim, Ferelden**

Leliana takes a deep, fortifying breath, and ducks into Aryn Cousland's tent, uninvited and unannounced. She is, she has decided,  _monumentally_  fed up with being ignored, hurt, and bewildered.

The warden, her warden, does not look up, focused upon the task before her, drawing a whetstone with slow deliberation down Starfang's razor-sharp edge. The whistling scrape drags across Leliana's nerves – she's heard it far too often in the past few days. "If you sharpen that sword any more, it will wear completely away," she remarks by way of declaring her presence, though she's sure Aryn knows she's there.

Aryn doesn't reply, drawing the stone methodically down the back edge of the blade. Irked, the bard takes one more step, drops to her knees and clamps her hand around both stone and weapon. "Stop," she says, more forcefully. "It's sharp enough. You're wasting your time."  _You're wasting our time_.

Aryn's hand stills, but she remains passive, mastering the trained instinct to jerk the blade free and cut Leliana's fingers from her hand. Leliana can't account for the anger that has begun to smoulder in her stomach and chest, but as she looks around the tent every laid-out piece of Aryn's gear, meticulously polished and whetted, adds another coal to the embers. Seeing her own equipment, cleaned and prepared with equal fastidiousness, sparks a blaze.

"Makers' breath! You've shut me out all evening… for  _this_?" she demands hotly. "For days now, ever since the night we left Redcliffe, you've been avoiding me! And don't try to deny it, it's apparent even to Rufus!" The mabari has not left Leliana's side since they marched, determinedly dispensing the affection he normally reserves for his mistress. "For the love of the Maker, Aryn, why can you no longer look me in the eye, or even speak to me?" Aryn has stayed up late every night on the march across the Bannorn, ostensibly conferring with Alistair, Riordan, and Arl Eamon; coming to bed long after Leliana has sought their mated bedrolls, and gone again in the morning before the bard rises. She only knows the warden has been there at all from being woken each night by Aryn's unconscious screams and spasms; the closer they get to the Archdemon, the worse the taint seems to affect her. "Why will you not let me in?" Leliana reaches out with her free hand, grasps her lover's shoulder, and nearly recoils when she feels how tense, how rigid, the younger woman's muscles are. "Why will you not even look at me now? Please, my love,  _mon coeur_ … talk to me."

Aryn swallows hard, but does not look up from where Leliana's hand rests on her blade. "I need to finish this," she says, almost inaudibly, her voice as flat and calm as a mill pond in spite of the tension radiating from her body.

Wounded by the rebuff, Leliana snatches her hands back. "Fine," she snaps, her temper in command of her tongue, "you finish that. No doubt the Archdemon and the darkspawn horde will run screaming when they see how clean and sharp our weapons are. And to think I thought that Grey Wardens wielded some mysterious power beyond the grasp of simple squires!"

She gets to her feet, hunching over to avoid hitting the top of the tent, and stalks toward the flap. Behind her, there's a muted clatter as the sword hits the ground.

"Leliana… please."

Aryn's voice is drenched with tears and terror.

"Please… don't go."

The bard turns, and what she sees drives every emotion except heartbreak from her consciousness. Her warden is crying.

Grief has stripped every last one of Aryn's defences, laid bare the frightened, bereaved girl who lurks beneath the titles and the accolades; warden, noblewoman, champion, hero, Cousland. Eyes wide, tears streaming down her face, dressed in a simple shirt and breeches, she looks her age, a mere eighteen years, scarcely old enough to be shouldering such a weight of expectation.

Leliana sinks to her knees, crawls back, and pulls Aryn into her arms, embracing the sobbing warden and tucking her head beneath her chin. Her heart aches for her beloved, and for fear of what might have terrified her fierce, brave girl so. "Oh, Aryn, dear heart," she murmurs against her lover's bright gold hair, "it's all right. I'm sorry. I spoke in anger, but I'm worried about you. You've not been yourself for days."

Aryn shifts in her grip, burying her face in Leliana's tunic, weeping unabashedly as she cuddles closer to the bard. "Please, Leliana, hold me."

"For as long as you need me," Leliana promises, "and longer."

Aryn clings to her, venting her grief, sobs racking her body over and over as the pain she has been carrying for too long floods forth. Leliana, privy to some of the most intimate moments of the younger woman's life, has never seen her so despondent, has never seen her so completely undone by sorrow. But the bard knows too well there are moments that go beyond courage, beyond endurance, beyond will, and this storm has been brewing ever since Riordan took his fellow Wardens aside to discuss their plan for dealing with the Archdemon. Leliana knows the task appointed to the army and their comrades – make sure the Wardens reach the dragon at all costs – but how the endgame unfolds is a mystery to all save three.

Eventually, Aryn quiets in her arms, her supply of tears spent. Leliana sits back a little, searching the scared silver gaze of her love intently. "Tell me what troubles you so," Leliana pleads.

Aryn shivers. "I'm going to die," she whispers. "And Maker forgive me… I'm afraid to."

"You're not…" Leliana can't make herself speak the guarantee, although she desperately wants to. "Why are you so sure of this? Why now? All this time, you've been so hopeful, so brave, no? What has happened to make you despair so?"

"Riordan…" She almost spits the name. "He told us why only the Grey Wardens can end the Blight. An Archdemon can only be slain if the killing blow is given by a warden." Her voice is gaining volume and power. "And the warden who strikes that blow? They die with the Archdemon - their life is a necessary sacrifice to end the Blight. So you see, our mysterious power, as you call it, is simply to die at the right moment, our vaunted service nothing more than a drawn-out death sentence." She manages a bitter chuckle. "If the Archdemon doesn't get you, the taint does, one way or another. The Blight always wins. And they don't tell you that before you join." Anger smoulders beneath her anguish as she sniffs. "No, they prefer to wait until you dare to have hope, until you summon the audacity to dream of a future beyond the nightmares, and then they crush you."

"But why does that mean you have to be the one to strike it down?" Leliana demands, nausea and a creeping horror of comprehension rising in her belly. "There are three of you."

"Alistair's the king." Aryn ducks her head, scrubs a hand through her hair tiredly. "After all we went through to put him on that damn throne, he can hardly be allowed to sacrifice himself, except as the last, desperate resort." She snorts softly. "So it must be Riordan, or me. And if the order is to be rebuilt in Ferelden, they'll need a veteran to train people. I know nothing about being a Warden beyond that I am sworn to kill darkspawn. I'm the most expendable. It's an easy choice."

"No," Leliana whispers, stunned. In the blink of an eye, everything she has dared to dream has been rendered to ash.

"You know what the worst part is?" Aryn continues, almost conversationally. Leliana shakes her head, all of her eloquence, all of her breath stolen away by the tight, hard knot of pain in her chest. "Duncan made my father promise…," the anger spikes through Aryn's voice now, and for a moment, the lion-hearted warrior is in the ascendant, "he made my father  _promise_  – while he lay sodding  _dying_  – that he could recruit me in exchange for saving my life. And he knew recruiting me would kill me – I could have died during the Joining, I would have died at Ostagar if not for Flemeth and Morrigan. He betrayed my father's trust as much as Howe did." She bows her head, as her voice cracks again, as the apparition of her battle-mien fades. "He should just have left me to die defending my mother. It would have been kinder."

"Don't say that," Leliana begs, finding a broken, plaintive breath. "You've done so much good, saved so many lives, brought such hope to so many since that dark day." She kisses Aryn's tear-weighted eyelids tenderly. "Your mother and father would be  _so_  proud of you, as I am. You heard your father say so, at the temple."

"I miss them so much," Aryn whispers. "I want them back. All of them. I just want them back. I want to sit with my father, listen to him talk about strategy and tactics, argue with him and Fergus and Oriana about politics. I want to fight with my mother about what I wear, and talk to her about you. I want to teach Orrin how to fight." She looks at Leliana and squeezes the bard's fingers. "I want to take you home to them."

There's nothing Leliana can say that will ease the ache of bereavement, but she feels compelled to try. "I would have liked that. If they were anything like you, I would have loved them."

Aryn closes her eyes for a moment, biting her lip. "Maker have mercy," she groans. She opens her eyes, and Leliana sees agony within the welling pools of silver. "What hurts the most… is that I'm hurting you. You don't deserve to be left alone again. I… Maker's grace, I  _wanted_  a life with you." Aryn's voice lowers and lowers until it is barely audible. "I wanted you to show me Orlais, I wanted to show you Highever. I wanted to make you happy, and now... now I'll never be able to. I'm so sorry, Leliana," she chokes. "If I'd known this was what awaited me, I would not have… I would have…"

"I would still love you," Leliana assures her fiercely. "And you would still love me. We were meant to find each other, Aryn. I believe that with all of my heart. The only difference would be that there would be more distance between us, since I would have no claim upon you had our feelings remained unrequited." Clarity struck. "That's why you've been ignoring me, no? You were trying to drive me away, protect me?" She cups Aryn's face lightly with her palm as her love nods guiltily, the barest fraction of a movement, mouth trembling. "Oh, my poor, brave girl, you are far,  _far_  too late for such a strategy to work." She leans in, takes a kiss from the quivering lips. "I love you, so very much."

"I didn't know what else to do," Aryn admits tearfully, stripped back to the young girl once more. "I'm so sorry, Leliana. I didn't mean to hurt you, but I don't know how to… how to make it better."

"Just love me," Leliana answers, resting her forehead against her love's. "You don't need to do anything else now. We will deal with tomorrow when tomorrow comes, and I will be with you, at your side… to whatever end. I will not leave you alone against your enemies, or with your fears. So please, my love, forget the world that waits outside this tent." She reaches under Aryn's shirt, strokes her fingers delicately across iron-hard muscles that tremble for her touch alone. "Forget the Blight, and the Archdemon, and all of the burdens that wait for you to carry them." She insinuates her fingers beneath Aryn's waistband, seeking a more intimate contact. "Just love me."

Her warden's sudden, desperate kiss is searing.

Their love-making is frantic. Leliana uses all of her trained talents, all of her polished skills, to keep the woman in her arms from thinking, to keep her aroused and inflamed until they finally collapse into a tangle of replete, boneless limbs. Wrapped intricately with the bard in a complex lover's knot, Aryn succumbs quickly to the exhaustion of the sated, her expression relaxed and, at last, peaceful. Leliana strokes her sweat-dampened hair lovingly, trying to soothe her own grief. Their lives have been at risk day in, day out for months. Both of them have suffered wounds that should have been fatal, reprieved only by Wynne's gifts. She has lived with the reality of losing Aryn to the Blight every day, but knowing that tomorrow will bring her death as surely as a condemned prisoner dragged to the headsman…

Her mind reels with a grief too immense to comprehend. A sob wrenches from her, unbidden, unwelcome, and she wriggles free of her lover's embrace, not wishing to wake the warden from the dreamless slumber she so desperately needs. Pulling on her shirt and breeches, she stumbles barefoot from the tent, and runs straight into Riordan.

The older warden catches her, sympathy dawning in his eyes as he sees her grief. "She told you, then?" he asks rhetorically, setting her courteously back on her feet.

"Should she not have?" Leliana retorts acidly, wiping her eyes.

Riordan shrugs. "It  _was_  meant to be for Grey Warden ears alone."

"Then cast her from your order for breaking the rules," Leliana snaps, her voice breaking. "Then at least she would be spared such a monstrous injustice."

"Would that I could," Riordan replies dolefully. "She is far too young to have to face this, far too young to have such a demand made of her. I know a little of her past, what Alistair has told me, and you are utterly correct in this assessment." His mournful, dark eyes hold both pity and steel. "But alas, the Archdemon cares nothing for what is just or fair or righteous. And we cannot afford the luxury of fairness, not when there are only three of us." He lays a hand on her shoulder. She jerks away, unwilling to accept his offered consolation, wrapped in Aryn's anger and her own. Unoffended, he lets his hand drop. "Know this. Scant comfort it may be, but it is our custom that the oldest of the Wardens strike down the Archdemon, when possible. Duncan never intended for either of his young charges to have to win this fight."

"I'm certain he never intended to die at Ostagar either," Leliana snipes. "But here we are, nonetheless."

Riordan meets her anger stoically. "Here we are," he agrees. "I will do everything in my power to avoid letting either Alistair or Aryn take that blow. They have done more than we could have hoped, more than anyone would dare ask, to defeat this Blight, and I would spare them this sacrifice, as is my duty as their brother."

"Have you told them this?"

"I have," Riordan assures her. "I do not think Aryn believes, but I cannot do anything more about that. But if I should fall before I get the chance to end it," Riordan sighs heavily, "then one of them must take my place. And you must know that noble girl will never allow her King, her friend, to take the blow before her."

"I do know," Leliana agrees, "but you have given me small shard of hope, at least. It will be enough." Abruptly, her anger drains off, leaving her exhausted. She steps in and hugs the warden apologetically. "I'm sorry. You must think me so selfish. It is…" she smiles sadly, "unjust that her chance at life must come at the expense of yours. You are a good man."

Riordan hugs her back with a smile, then shoos her away. " _Je ne regrette rien_ ," he says in their shared native tongue. "I have had a good life, and I would see others able to say the same. Go. She is lucky to have you, and she will need you tomorrow, at no less than your best. Rest well,  _cherie_."

"Thank you, Riordan." Leliana slips back to the tent, pausing to scratch the ever-watchful Rufus behind the ear before ducking inside. Aryn is still asleep, her hand reaching into the space Leliana should occupy. Undressing, the bard rejoins her lover in their bedroll, wrapping herself in the warrior's strong, warm presence. "I will carry the hope you dare not hold," she promises quietly, pressing a kiss to her beloved's forehead. "For both of us."

Sleep takes an age to steal over her, held at bay by sorrow and the need to savour every moment of Aryn's presence, but when the gentle dark finally overcomes her, she is, Maker be praised, still able to dream.


	2. Your Beacon and Your Shield

**9:31 Dragon – atop the tower of Fort Drakon, Denerim**

 

The Archdemon roars in pain as it crashes to the roof of the tower, the impact shaking the entire fortress. Leliana staggers, unbalanced, and narrowly avoids being skewered by an onrushing genlock, saved from injury only by Sten splitting the darkspawn from crown to belly with one massive swing of his soul blade. She nods quick thanks to her Qunari comrade, draws another arrow, and looks for a new target.

The dragon is on its last legs, but Maker, it’s been a long, hellish fight.  Fatigue drags at Leliana’s limbs and mind, slowing her reactions. Every shot is harder to make, the muscles in her arms trembling more with each pull of the bowstring.  Her aim is deteriorating, her arrows are dwindling, her strength is nearly spent.

All of her companions are similarly afflicted.  Aryn and Alistair are fresher than the others, bolstered by the strength and stamina the darkspawn taint imbues them with, but even they are flagging, their strikes less precise, their reflexes less swift. Soon now, someone is going to make a mistake in this dangerous game of cat and mouse.

Predictably enough, that someone is Aryn.  Driven by her instinct to protect her friends, she takes one risk too many, getting in close as Zevran fires another salvo from the ballista he’s manning; the siege weapon has been a godsend for their chances.  Aryn ducks in under the dragon’s wing and swings two-handed at the back of its leg.  Starfang’s razor edge, still bright and keen (Aryn had used Duncan’s blade and then Asturian’s to their ruination in the battle through the city, saving her best sword for her deadliest foe), slices neatly through hide and tendon, and the leg collapses beneath the Archdemon’s weight.

“Warden, watch out!” Oghren bellows as the crippled Archdemon lashes out. Aryn tries to dodge, but not quickly enough. She throws up her shield and catches the blow, but it’s heavy enough to send her flying, crashing to the ground several yards from the dragon, armour scraping across the flagstones as she skids to a stop, her cry of pain cutting through the din of the battle raging below the tower.

Leliana looses her last arrow and dashes across to the fallen warden’s side accompanied by Wynne, as Sten, Alistair and Oghren fan out to cover her.  Zevran swings the ballista, adjusting his aim to keep clear of his companions.  “Don’t kill it!” Leliana screams at the top of her lungs.  “Sten, keep Alistair back!” Aryn’s final briefing this morning had been explicit – if anyone other than her, Riordan or, at the end of need, Alistair, strike the final blow, the Archdemon will be reborn within another darkspawn and they will have to fight it all over again. Sten looks over, nods acknowledgement, then turns back to the fight, planting himself firmly between Alistair and the beast.

Reaching Aryn’s side, her heart clenches as she sees her love already trying to rise, teeth gritted in a grimace of agony.  Her helmet is gone, knocked clear by the dragon’s blow.  Her shield is almost wrecked, three long, deep grooves scored across the face by the claws that should have disembowelled her.  The arm beneath is almost certainly shattered, hanging limp and useless at her side.  Leliana grabs the lower rim of her breastplate and hauls her upright, then, in a moment of brutal objectivity, draws a dagger and slices the straps of the shield; Aryn can’t heft it anyway and it’s simply causing her pain. The battered kite of metal hits the ground with a clatter, and Aryn groans in relief.  “Thank you,” she sighs.  “The gauntlet too.” Leliana complies, as Wynne raises her hands to attempt a healing in spite of her fatigue. Aryn stops her with half a head-shake.  “Save your strength for the others, Wynne,” she rasps, her gaze hardening to steel as she sets herself.  “I’ll be all right, now. Maker watch over you.”

“Find peace in the arms of the Maker, Warden Cousland,” Wynne returns, the rigid formality of the words bridling the wealth of pain and sorrow in the mage’s voice. “I will never forget you.”

Aryn turns to Leliana.  “Leliana, I…”

“No, my love,” Leliana cuts her off, tears blurring her vision as she kisses her beloved a final time. She wants to beg Aryn to run and live, but now that the moment is here, she cannot utter the words that will weaken her lover’s resolve. Duty must come first, for both of them. The Archdemon has to die. Aryn’s duty is to slay it; Leliana’s, to give her the strength to see the task done.  “No more words.  I know you must do this, and everything worth saying has been said. I love you.  Let’s finish this.”  She drops her bow and draws her second knife, ducking under Aryn’s useless left arm and taking what weight she can from the Warden’s tired, aching body.

Love, gratitude and grief flare in Aryn’s eyes, and then she steps forward.  Leliana guards her flank, cutting down the last few darkspawn between them and their target, and then suddenly, they are beneath the Archdemon’s massive wings, advancing towards the head. 

The fight may have wreaked terrible damage upon it, may have exhausted its flames but the Archdemon is still a dragon, still capable of killing, and the others must be allowed to withdraw from their baiting of it before it gets in a lucky blow. Leliana takes a precious second to look at Aryn one more time, etch the moment into her memory, then shoves the warden away from her with all her might. Swinging round, she casts one of her knives in a smooth overhand throw, hitting the Archdemon square in the eye. The dragon’s head swings round with impossible speed, a scream of rage and pain issuing from its jaws as it seeks to locate its tormentor. Leliana tries to dive clear, but her attempt at evasion isn’t quick enough, and the horned snout clatters into her with stunning force.  She hits the ground hard, her head smacking painfully into the stone. Dazed and winded, with excruciating pain flooding through her right arm, she’s completely helpless.

She dimly hears a woman’s voice raised in a cry of defiance, then the air fills with a titanic shriek of agony that hurts her ears. Hands slide beneath her armpits, pulling her into a restraining hug, and a cool haze of healing magic surrounds her. As the pain and dizziness recede, she sits up, straining to see, Wynne’s hands holding her gently captive.

The Archdemon is down, motionless. Starfang juts from beneath its jaw, where Aryn’s final strike has driven the blade up into its brain. Alistair, Sten, and Oghren are standing over it, weapons raised, alert in case the task is not done. Alistair kicks at it gingerly, provoking no response.  “I think it’s dead,” he says, disbelievingly.

“Stick your sword in it,” Oghren suggests with a tired grin.  “If you don’t fall over, we’ll know for sure.”

Alistair scowls, starting to turn toward Leliana, but his gaze only tracks halfway to her before a cry of anguish tears from him.  “No!” he cries, dropping his blade and darting forward.

Leliana follows his movement, compelled even though she does not think she can bear to see what he has seen. Twenty feet beyond the beast’s body lies a still form in blood-drenched silver armour, sprawled brokenly over the flagstones. 

Leliana’s own scream rents the air, thin and hollow in the sudden quiet.

“Aryn!”

She wrenches herself free of Wynne’s grasp with a wail, bolting to her feet and staggering forward. “Aryn, no!”  As she steps from the healing spell’s area of effect, pain washes over her, tearing a gasp from her lips, but she pushes on, staggering to Alistair’s side and collapsing to her knees beside her love’s still, pale body. “Oh, no… oh Maker, please.”

Andraste’s grace, she might simply be sleeping, her eyes closed, her face relaxed and at peace beneath the grime and the blood from the gash that’s split her cheek open.  She looks so young and innocent that she can’t possibly be dead.  _It can’t be true_. “Wake up, Aryn,” Leliana begs brokenly, shaking her shoulder. “Please, my love… please wake up. Please?”

Somewhere deep in the romantic centre of her heart, Leliana hadn’t really believed, hadn’t wanted to believe, Aryn’s pronouncement that certain death awaited her if Riordan failed. Even when the lonely Orlesian warden had taken his terrible fall from the Archdemon’s back, even when she’d seen her lover’s shoulders slump at the realisation that the burden was now hers, Leliana still hadn’t been able to bring herself to believe. Surely the Maker would not be so cruel. Aryn has suffered so much in this Blight; surely asking this final sacrifice of her would be too great an injustice for the Maker’s compassion to bear.  And yet, as she gazes anxiously upon her love’s face, there’s no movement to indicate life; only the wind, idly caressing her spun-gold hair. A chill fills Leliana’s whole being, spreading from her chest into her stomach, and she shivers, hugging herself to ward off her desolation as her heart breaks. Throwing her head back, she screams, an animal cry of pure grief.

“I don’t understand,” Alistair whispers, tears choking his voice as he runs his hands uselessly over Aryn’s armour. “She’s not injured.  She shouldn’t be dead. It was _supposed_ to protect her.” A sob wells in his throat.

Leliana ignores him; she has no capacity to comfort his grief when her own is beyond comprehension. She leans down, tears streaming from her eyes and pattering onto her Warden’s lovely face.  “Oh Aryn, dear heart,” she murmurs brokenly. “I love you so much.” She kisses the younger woman’s soft lips, tasting copper and salt, braced to feel them already cooling.

But they’re warm.

Her lips are warm.

Still warm.

Leliana puts her ear to Aryn’s mouth, and the softest whisper of breath tickles her senses.  “Wynne!” she yelps desperately, her voice cracking.  “Wynne, she’s still alive, she’s _breathing_!  Help her! Help her, please!”

Alistair pulls Leliana back, hugs her close in part compassionate restraint, part solidarity of suspense, as the exhausted mage summons her last reserves of strength and bathes Aryn’s body in healing magic.  She can’t maintain the spell for more than a few seconds, but Aryn coughs, chest heaving as she sucks in a stuttering, gasping breath, and her quicksilver eyes flutter open.  Leliana shakes Alistair loose and bends over her lover, smoothing her hair back out of her face in delighted disbelief.  “Aryn?  Aryn, my love, please, can you hear me?”

Aryn nods, ever so slightly, as her gaze focuses on the bard.  “Lel… Leliana,” she wheezes. 

Leliana hauls her warden up, cradling her head against her chest, wrapping her arms around the awkward armoured bulk of the warrior’s shoulders. “Maker, thank you,” the bard whispers, weeping now from relief as the frozen sensation that gripped her thaws to fuel her tears.

“What happened?” Aryn asks hoarsely.  “Is the Archdemon…” Her gaze is confused, clouded with disbelief. She tries to sit up, look around, but Leliana pulls her gently back.

“Rest easy, my love. It’s dead. You did it.” 

“I can’t feel it anymore,” Aryn persists. “It’s really dead?” Her eyes seek Alistair’s face, needing the other warden’s verification.

“As a doornail,” Alistair confirms, placing a restraining hand on her breastplate as he shifts to give her a clear view.  “I’m not sure how we’re ever going to get your sword out of its head – you really jammed it in there.” He makes a show of looking at the corpse. “I guess you wanted to be sure, hmmm?”

“But then… why am I alive?” Aryn wonders, staring over at the monstrosity she has slain.  “If I killed it, it should have killed me. Riordan said the warden who strikes the killing blow dies. If it’s dead, then...”

“You’re not _complaining_ , are you?” Wynne asks in tired amusement.

“No… no, but…”  Aryn’s gaze does not leave Alistair, suspicion knitting a frown into her brow. “I just don’t understand.”

Alistair’s jaw tenses.  He lets out a sigh, then turns to look Aryn straight in the eye, a slow blush developing across his cheeks.  “I guess Riordan must have been wrong,” he says firmly.

Aryn holds his gaze for a long moment, and something passes between them, but it’s too complex for Leliana to interpret.  Wynne is no less intrigued, her gaze narrowing thoughtfully. Eventually, however, Aryn looks away.  “I guess he must have been,” she agrees tiredly.

Alistair’s blush deepens, but he’s forestalled from replying by the arrival of a blood-soaked Bann Teagan and a mixed company of knights and mages.  “You did it!” Teagan exults.  “The darkspawn are in full retreat.” He looks at the Archdemon in wonder.  “Maker’s breath, how did you ever bring that thing down?”

Alistair looks sombrely around at the bodies strewn over the tower top, elves, dwarves, and men; united in death and sacrifice as they would never willingly be in life. “With an awful lot of help,” he says quietly.  “And that will not be forgotten, not in my kingdom, not while I rule.”

Aryn shifts in Leliana’s arms, and the bard looks down to see her warden gazing up at her.  “I can’t believe it,” she murmurs, for Leliana’s ears alone.  “I can’t believe we won.”

“I could not believe we would lose,” Leliana replies.  “I believed in my heart that we would triumph; the Maker has rewarded our faith, guided our victory with the beacon of hope. How do you feel?”

“Terrible.”

“I am not surprised.” Leliana risks a little levity.  “You know, you scared me a little just now.”

Aryn closes her eyes with a sigh.  “I’m sorry, Leliana.”

“No, no, _mon cherie_. No need to apologise.  I’m just so pleased to have you still with me.” When she doesn’t respond, the bard nudges the warden gently.  “Are you still with me?”

“Mmm?” Aryn’s eyes open again, and she looks troubled as her gaze falls on Alistair.  Leliana leans in close to whisper in her ear.

“Whatever is bothering you about Alistair, my love, let it go for now.  You’re alive.  However unlikely, however that miracle was achieved, it is worth celebrating.” She kisses Aryn’s cheek. “It is all of my prayers, answered.”

Aryn’s sudden smile is luminous.  “I’m the answer to your prayers?” she manages to jibe weakly.  “Maker help you, Leliana.”

“He always has,” the bard chuckles, stroking the warden’s hair.  “In fact, I’m almost certain he’s quite fond of me.”

“He’s not the only one,” Aryn murmurs, her eyelids drooping. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Leliana continues her caress.  “Shhh, it’s all right. Rest here a while with me.” She sits down, cross-legged, and settles Aryn’s head in her lap.  Aching and exhausted Leliana may be, bruised and scraped from head to toe, covered in blood and gore, surrounded by the stench of burning and death, but she is sure of one thing as her battered hero falls asleep in her weary arms.  She has never been so happy in her whole life.


	3. She Who Trusts in the Maker

**The Grand Cathedral, Val Royeaux, Orlais 9:31 Dragon**

In the grey light of the pre-dawn, the Seeker wakens, obedient to a rhythm instilled by a lifetime of discipline.  Cassandra Pentaghast rises immediately from her cot, splashing water onto her face and neck to clear the lingering vestiges of sleep, then kneels before the east-facing window of her spartan cell, offering her morning prayers to the Maker as the first rays of the sunrise paint the sky with long, vibrant streaks of ochre and gold.

Devotions complete, she makes her toilet and then washes and dresses, opting for her traditional Seeker’s full formal armour, burnished plate and embroidered robes, rather than the plainer, more comfortable gear she wears on the road.  In the Grand Cathedral, in full sight of those who set store by such things, it is always best to pay due deference to tradition. Besides, Cassandra will admit in her secret heart that she likes the intimidating effect of the full Seeker regalia; people are far less likely to bother her with inane questions if she appears to be completely unapproachable.

Once armed and armoured, the Seeker sets forth, navigating the warren of corridors that permeates the cathedral complex. The denizens of Val Royeaux refer to the whole compound as the cathedral, but in truth the high seat of the Chantry is closer to a self-contained town than a single building. Cassandra can obtain virtually anything she requires for her daily life without ever setting foot outside the ornate, gilt gates that shut out the mundane world. She knows some brothers and sisters who have never crossed that portal since the day they took their vows.

It is a mind-set she cannot comprehend.  For all that her presence in Val Royeaux is voluntary, the result of conscious choices (though she has been cooped up here for far too long, lately), the parallels with the life she rejected as a teenager do not escape her notice. A gilded cage, an expected decorum, a mentality entrenched in tradition and complacency. _The weight of history is a powerful force_ , the Seeker reflects as she traverses the colonnaded walkway from the monastery where she maintains her quarters to the cathedral proper. _Always, it seeks to mould the present to its form_.  A wry smile quirks her mouth.  She may not be much more liberated than she was as Nevarran nobility, but at least here she can acknowledge that truth, and no one, not even the Divine, can demand that she wear a dress.

She acknowledges the salutes of the Knights Divine, the respect due the Right Hand, as she approaches the side door to the narthex of the cathedral. “Most Holy is within?” she asks.

The left-hand sentry nods.  “Yes, Seeker,” he affirms, his voice echoing hollowly within his helmet.  “A raven arrived an hour before dawn, and upon reading the news it carried Most Holy felt moved to give devotions.”

Cassandra arches an eyebrow in surprise. Clearly the news must be momentous, then.  “She is not in her offices, then?”

“She kneels at the Prophet’s feet, Seeker,” the templar replies.  “Giving thanks, though I know not what for.” He tilts his head slightly toward the door.  “She has not asked for privacy, however.  She is attended by Mother Evangeline and Mother Dorothea.”

“Dorothea?”  The name is unfamiliar to Cassandra, an ignorance that irks her somewhat; she knows all of the grand conclave on a personal basis, and better than half of their support staffs by sight.  There is no Revered Mother of that name resident in the Val Royeaux complex, of that she is sure.

“She arrived not half an hour ago from the country,” the templar replies. “Mother Evangeline vouched for her.”

Ah.  Doubtless she is one of the Left Hand’s agents, then, though Evangeline rarely identifies her people so blatantly. “I see. May I pass, then?”

“You may proceed, Seeker. The Maker’s grace be upon you.”

“And His peace upon you,” Cassandra responds formally. As the templar settles back to his position, she pushes the door open on silent, well-oiled hinges and steps into the cathedral.  It must be word of the Blight. Nothing else could be of such importance.  _Could it be that the darkspawn have been defeated_? The situation in Ferelden had been dire; with the king fallen in battle at the ruins of Ostagar, the nobles had fallen to bickering among themselves while the darkspawn ravaged the countryside and slaughtered the people.  And the Grey Wardens of Orlais had been stopped at the border, along with the support troops pledged to King Cailan by Empress Celene, on the Regent of Ferelden’s orders.  Teyrn Loghain’s hatred of Orlais was apparently so great that he would rather see his beloved homeland destroyed than accept Orlesian help.

The Divine had been incredulous at that news, Cassandra hardly less so.  The Blight would destroy everything, cover all the lands of Thedas in darkness and corruption if it was not checked quickly; Warden-Commander Clarel had been adamantly clear on that point as she’d dispatched more than half her command east to compensate for the loss of the entire Ferelden chapter of her order. Six weeks ago there had been proclamation of a Landsmeet, the gathering of nobles unique to Ferelden’s government, but no official word of any changes or action had been forthcoming. The orders to close the border remained in force, and Celene’s commander dared not force the issue.

There were rumours, of course, whispers of long-lost princes being found, of golems and qunari stalking the countryside, and all manner of other far-fetched nonsense, but Cassandra had been ignoring the mess-hall speculation, preferring to put her faith in the intelligence received by her counterpart. However, Mother Evangeline had been unable to confirm anything concrete other than that the Arl of Redcliffe had moved his court to Denerim more than eight weeks ago after recovering suddenly from a severe illness. 

To say the Left Hand was chafing at the lack of information was a monumental understatement; sharp-tongued even at the best of times, the old witch had become downright waspish as her networks of agents failed to turn up anything verifiable.  She was adamantly convinced that someone was making a political power play, but she could find no corroboration. The Blight, it seemed, was simply swallowing up everything it touched.

Cassandra can sympathize with Evangeline’s frustration, she has to admit. If Beatrix would only give the word, she would gladly lead a force of templars to assist Ferelden.

As she turns into the nave of the cathedral, the splendour of the sight before her chases all of her conjecture from her mind. It never fails to stop her breath, no matter how often she sees it.  The space itself is immense, taking up the full width and most of the length of the building, towering columns and lofty vaults supporting a ceiling so high it is lost in shadow. Two delicate galleries run the length of the nave on either side to provide additional space for the faithful. Three storeys of intricate stained-glass windows split the incoming light into rainbows, painting delicate, many-hued patterns of light on the snow-white marble floor and picking out details in the intricately carved reliefs depicting scenes from the Prophet’s life that adorn the walls.  The builders had known their craft, shaping and placing the carvings such that the most important events are highlighted by the incoming light, telling Andraste’s story day after day as the sun traverses its path across the heavens.

At the centre of the building, precisely where the nave and the transept intersect, the colossus of Andraste commands the entire cathedral. Cast in bronze and overlaid with gold leaf, the image of the Bride of the Maker stands fifty feet tall in her aspect as the Prophet, prayerful and devout. Beyond the statue, the hammered aurum chancel screen bars the view into the choir, but the Chant of Light carries on the incense-laden air nonetheless; the litany is repeated every two weeks, every verse and line of every canticle, the chanters rotating in shifts so that there is never a break in the measure.

Cassandra takes a deep breath, feels the familiar peace of the place infuse her being as the scent of the incense tickles her nostrils.  She sinks to one armoured knee with an echoing, atonal clank of metal against stone, and bows her head in prayer.  “Andraste guide me, that I may know no fear, for the Maker is with me. Andraste guide me, that I may not be dismayed, for I walk in the Maker’s sight. Andraste guide me, that I might be upheld by the Maker’s righteous hand, and walk the path he sets for me in faith, hope, and love.  Blessed Andraste, hear my prayer.”

The Seeker rises and walks as quietly as she can down the grand central aisle, wide enough for three knights to ride astride. Three figures are gathered at the foot of Andraste’s statue, standing at the public altar with heads bowed in contemplation. As Cassandra closes, she is able to recognise two of them; the Divine and Mother Evangeline.  The third woman, in the robes of a Revered Mother, mud-spattered and travel-stained, must be the mysterious Dorothea.

As she reaches the group, the Divine turns to greet her.  “Ah, Cassandra, good morning.”

“Most Holy,” the Seeker offers, bending to kiss the Divine’s ring.  “An early start, I see?”

“We have much to be thankful for, this day,” Divine Beatrix smiles.  “The Blight has been defeated, Maker be praised.”

“Andraste’s mercy, that’s wonderful news. How was this victory accomplished?” Cassandra asks.

“It seems there were Grey Wardens remaining in Ferelden after all,” Evangeline elaborates sourly; she is not, by habit, an early riser and being roused at the crack of dawn does little for her disposition. “One of them, by some enormous coincidence, turned out to be the bastard half-brother of King Cailan.  The Landsmeet proclaimed the bastard as king after his colleague championed him and defeated Teyrn Loghain in trial by combat. They rallied the armies of Ferelden, and slew the Archdemon in the ensuing battle when the darkspawn attacked Denerim.”

“The horde sacked Denerim?” Sorrow washes through Cassandra.  “Maker, what of the townsfolk?”

“Mostly evacuated, including the elves in the Alienage,” the Divine replies, sounding relieved.  “Many lives were saved by quick and thoughtful action. From what I can tell, this King Alistair seems to have made a very good start with his stewardship of Ferelden’s throne. I will need to write to him, and thank him and his nobles for their efforts.”

“We do not know enough of this young king, as yet,” Evangeline muses.  “He set aside his brother’s widow, it seems. I wonder why? Teyrn Loghain’s daughter would have been a valuable ally in healing the wounds of a civil war.”

Cassandra snorts.  “Perhaps Cailan’s queen took exception to the suggestion that she marry the man who had just executed her father.”

The Divine smiles slightly at this, while Evangeline scowls at Cassandra.  The Left Hand’s ire is not something to be lightly provoked, but Cassandra has long since lost her fear of the older woman. “Anora is a shrewd and calculating young woman,” the Divine remarks before Evangeline can speak. “It’s unlikely she would have let her fractious relationship with her father get in the way of her ambition.”

“Though your empathy does you great credit, Seeker Pentaghast,” the newly arrived cleric offers quietly, as the Left Hand subsides with a mutter.

“Thank you, revered Mother,” Cassandra returns politely, turning to fully face the woman.  “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, however.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, how very rude of me.  Dorothea, revered Mother to the cloister of Valence.  It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Dorothea extends her hand, and Cassandra shakes it warmly, taking in the laughter lines in the woman’s face, the keen intelligence that dances in her eyes, and the assured grip. This woman oozes self-confidence, rare for a cleric in close proximity to the Divine and her two most trusted agents.

“Likewise,” the Seeker responds. “Please, call me Cassandra. What brings you to Val Royeaux, Mother Dorothea? Did you also bring us word of the Blight?”

“In a sense, although my arrival in Val Royeaux is entirely coincidental,” Dorothea explains smoothly.  “I bring news that compelled me to travel directly here from Valence. But I am not sure it should be disclosed in so public a place.”

“We shall retire to my offices, then,” Beatrix orders.  “Let us proceed directly.”

The four women walk in silence across the transept and through the tall doors that lead to the Divine’s audience chamber and her personal offices beyond.  Once they are seated on the couches the Divine keeps for less formal moments of discussion, Mother Dorothea clears her throat.

“One week ago I received a letter from a friend of mine, a lay sister cloistered in Lothering whom I had the privilege of bringing to the service of the Maker a few years ago,” she begins, fishing a carefully folded piece of parchment from her robes and handing it to the Divine. 

Beatrix lifts the letter and scans it.  “Written in cipher?” She peers at the text.  “I don’t recognize this particular one.”

“No.  Forgive me, Most Holy, after an… unfortunate… encounter with a bardmaster some years ago I had cause to look to my own security, and asked my friend to write a cipher for me. She is one of only three people, including myself, that I trust with it.”  Dorothea leans forward, lowers her voice.  “My friend, much to my relief and surprise, has been travelling with the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, one of whom must have been this new king…”she checks the text, “yes, I see his name here, Alistair. She joined them when they rescued her from Lothering.” She looks over at Evangeline.  “You must have heard reports of the Arl of Redcliffe’s illness, yes?”

“Yes,” Evangeline confirms.  “It was one of the reasons I suspected foul play was afoot after the rout at Ostagar.”

“Sister Leliana’s letter confirms that Eamon was poisoned, and that, in a desperate bid to heal him and gain his political support against Teyrn Loghain, the warden in command decided to seek the Urn of Sacred Ashes.”

The Divine takes a deep breath, her gaze searching Dorothea’s face intently.  “And?”

“They found it,” Dorothea says quietly.  “In a ruined temple above a village called Haven, deep in the Frostbacks.”

“Maker’s Grace,” Cassandra breathes.  “Can it be true?”

“Leliana’s faith runs deep,” Dorothea asserts. “If she believes it, I believe her.  The Ashes healed Arl Eamon, rid him of the taint of a poison with no known cure.  And she speaks of a Chantry scholar, one Brother Genitivi, who can provide corroboration.”

“I know the name. I’ve read some of his research treatises,” Cassandra notes, her pulse quickening with excitement.  “He does not appear to be a man given to exaggeration.”

“Indeed not,” Evangeline agrees.  “He’s as reliable a source as we’re likely to find, and the Urn has been an obsession of his for years. If he thinks what they found was genuine, and Arl Eamon’s healing can be verified by witnesses…”

“Leliana reports that the Arlessa Isolde and various members of the Redcliffe household would be willing to give testimony to that effect,” Dorothea interrupts, a restrained smile on her lips.  “She’s been very thorough.”

Cassandra doesn’t really care how meticulous Dorothea’s contact has been, her attention is almost wholly taken by the enormity of what they’re discussing.  The resting place of Andraste herself? Possibly the most holy relic the Chantry could ever dream of obtaining? And they know where it is?  “It is a miracle,” she says softly.  “A sign from the Maker that the threat of the Blight has truly been conquered.  If these wardens, this king, found the Ashes, then they must truly be His worthy servants.”

Her excitement is contagious; she can see it trip from her to Dorothea, then Evangeline, and finally the Divine herself.  Beatrix smiles slowly, wonderingly, as she meets the gazes of her advisors one by one.  “Cassandra is correct. This is a miracle, born amid the shadow of evil.  And we must act quickly to make sure the Ashes are protected, and the news reaches the faithful in the right way.”

“The Ashes appear to be guarded,” Dorothea reports, scanning the letter once more.  “Leliana speaks of a Gauntlet, a trial of faith and spirit designed to protect the Urn from those of impure purpose.”

“Be that as it may,” Beatrix replies, “We dare not take any chances. Dorothea, does that letter contain directions?”

“It does.”

“Good.” Beatrix turns to Evangeline.  “Evangeline, send word to Grand Cleric in Denerim at once.  Brother Genitivi is to be found and commanded to present himself to me with all haste. Dorothea, reply to Sister Leliana, thanking her from me for this joyous news.  I would hear more from her, if she is willing.  Perhaps you could invite her to Valence to visit you, as a first step?”

Dorothea inclines her head.  “It would be my pleasure, Most Holy.”

Beatrix nods, and turns to Cassandra.  “Cassandra, Dorothea will give you the location of this village and this temple.  Gather a detachment of the Knights Divine, find this place, and make sure it is protected.  You may draft reinforcements from Ferelden’s templars and chanters as you see fit.  I charge you, as my Right Hand; let no man set foot in the resting place of our Lady until my formal proclamation of discovery is made.”

Cassandra’s heart leaps. To be trusted with such an enormous responsibility… to be appointed the protector of something so important... she can hardly believe it. “As you command, Most Holy,” she acknowledges, fierce pride and joy flaming in her stomach.  “I will take ship on the next tide.”

Dorothea chuckles.  “So very impulsive, my dear Seeker.” She smiles as Cassandra blushes.  “Peace be upon you, Cassandra, I meant nothing by it.  I see that this has captured your imagination, and if you mean to leave today, I should transcribe this letter for you with all haste.” She lifts the parchment, and offers a bow to Beatrix as she gets to her feet.  “By your leave, Most Holy?”

“Of course, Dorothea.  Report back to me when you are done.  And you,” the Divine flashes Cassandra a tolerant, fond smile, “You’d best get packing.  The next tide is at noon.”


	4. Blessed are the Righteous

9:32 Dragon, Valence, Orlais

"This is it?"

Leliana nods as she dismounts her horse before the Chantry. Aryn tilts her head back, looking up at the building in admiration.

"The architecture's quite different here, isn't it?" she comments.

"Mmm. Orlais is the heartland of the Chantry, and," Leliana grins, "to pander completely to your Fereldan prejudices, we simply adore grandiose and ostentatious buildings."

"I knew that would be the reason," Aryn chuckles as she dismounts and ties her horse to the hitching post alongside the bard's. "So, you're Orlesian today, are you?"

"Well, as received wisdom would have it, when in Orlais, do as the Orlesians do, no?" Leliana offers airily.

"Doesn't that contradict 'Wherever you are, always be a little exotic'?" Aryn enquires.

Leliana laughs as she cocks a curious eyebrow. "So, you  _do_  listen to me, do you?"

"Avidly," Aryn assures her. "I could listen to you all day long. Which is just as well, really, given how fond you are of talking."

"Oh, you  _beast_ ," the bard accuses in a tragic voice. "You wound me with your ungallant words and your  _wicked_  tongue."

Aryn bites the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face as she catches Leliana around the waist. "I thought you enjoyed my wicked tongue," she breathes in her lover's ear.

Leliana shifts in her grip, and her teeth nip at Aryn's earlobe in turn. "Do you  _really_  want to play this game with me as we walk into a Chantry?" she challenges, her tone suddenly silken with the promise of sin. "Because I promise I'll leave you blushing and stammering like a virgin in an Antivan brothel."

"Mmm." The groan slips from Aryn's mouth as the bard's lips find the pulse point beneath her jaw. "Your argument is irrefutable, as is your ability to make good on that threat. I concede." She hasn't a hope of besting Leliana in verbal combat, not when the topic is innuendo; the bard has years of advantage over her.

"How is it you yield so easily, mighty warrior?" Leliana teases.

"Discretion is the better part of valour, maiden fair," Aryn retorts. "And there is no shame in acknowledging an opponent's superior skill at arms."

Leliana steps back with a wink. "Well, then, mine the victory, messere, and I'll claim my spoils later," she promises. She flicks a glance at the Chantry doors, and takes a deep breath.

"Nervous?" Aryn asks gently, surprised to see Leliana unsettled.

"A little. It's been a long time since I saw her, and… my memories of those days are not the happiest." Leliana reaches out and captures Aryn's hand. "Thank you for coming with me."

"My pleasure," Aryn replies earnestly. "Anything you need. And I won't pretend it isn't nice to get away from court for a little while." She squeezes her lover's fingers. "You'll be fine."

Leliana smiles and tugs her toward the door. "Come on then. Idle time is wasted time, no?"

The interior of the Chantry is breathtaking, and Aryn, in spite of her privileged upbringing, feels like an unsophisticated peasant at first as she marvels at the intricate stained glass, the towering marble statues, the priceless artworks adorning the walls, and the expanse of polished limestone that clads every inch of the walls. But while walking gingerly over the expanse of silk carpet that muffles their footfalls, a sense of disquiet develops as she realises that for all that the building purports to be a monument to the glory of the Maker, it is also very much a statement of the Chantry's wealth and power. After all, if this is the splendour of one of the least of the Maker's houses, how much more glorious must the Grand Cathedral be? How much wealth does the Chantry hold, and how much of that wealth is spent to ensure its primacy in the lives of all who live beneath the sign of the sunburst, from the Empress of Orlais to the poorest beggar in the gutters of Ostwick? It's an impious thought at best, and she shivers slightly beneath the stern gaze of the statue of Andraste.

Aryn's faith in the Maker and his ways is no longer what it was before she left Highever, a simple, straightforward acceptance of a widely proclaimed truth. She has seen too much and heard too much for that naïve view to ever be recaptured. From Morrigan's outright, militant atheism to Leliana's deeply personal, intimate expression of faith, she has heard many different viewpoints over the past year or so. The best she can say now is that she's not sure what she believes. Even though she has witnessed genuine miracles, she also knows how easily magic can create a facsimile almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

Guilt gnaws at her at the thought. She has not disclosed to Leliana the true nature of the reason for her survival. Morrigan has been true to her word; in the six months since the battle to end the Blight, no trace of the Witch of the Wilds has been found. For Alistair's sake, Aryn has kept her silence; she trusts Leliana implicitly, but she does not feel the secret is hers to confess. Alistair took the decision, Alistair performed the ritual, and Alistair must shoulder the burden and the consequences, though Aryn would never let him do so alone. She owes him that much, and far more.

Leliana's unsubtle pinch to her waist brings her back to the moment, and she realises they're no longer alone. A middle-aged sister with a pursed, disapproving mouth and a stern expression is approaching, her weighing gaze raking over the strangers in her Chantry. Aryn composes herself, settles into a rest position at Leliana's shoulder, ceding leadership of the situation to the bard.

"Welcome to Valence," the sister intones coolly, the words clearly a rote greeting rather than an actual welcome. "I am Sister Clarice. How can I help you?"

"Your welcome warms us, Sister," Leliana replies, blithely indifferent to the outright contradiction of her words with reality. "Andraste guide thee, that you may know the blessing of the Maker's love."

Clarice's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Andraste guide thee, that you may walk in the Maker's light," she responds, her tone a fraction less chilly. "You serve the Maker?"

"My name is Leliana, a lay sister of the Chantry, until recently serving in Lothering," Leliana explains with a confiding smile. "Alas, I was forced to flee the town when the darkspawn attacked. I was fortunate to be rescued and taken under the protection of a band of good and kind adventurers, who saw me safe to Denerim. When the Blight ended I determined to visit Valence to give thanks, and to bring word of the Blight's sorrow and suffering to Revered Mother Dorothea."

Aryn is impressed; there's not a word of a lie in that artful little speech. But sadly, Sister Clarice seems somewhat less impressed. "May I ask why Valence? Surely there are many Revered Mothers in Ferelden who would hear such an accounting?"

"Many of the Mothers of Ferelden experienced such events for themselves," Leliana replies sorrowfully. "As I daughter of Orlais, I felt compelled to bring word to my homeland. And Mother Dorothea was the one who brought me to the Maker's service." She offers an appealing smile, and Aryn looks up at the ceiling to hide her own smile. It takes a will of iron to resist Leliana in full charm mode. "I know how important her work is here, and that certainly you, good Sister, must have many things that require your attention, but I pray you, if it is not too much trouble, would you bring word of our arrival to the Mother? We are happy to wait upon her convenience."

"I am indeed a busy woman," Clarice agrees flicking a disdainful glance at Aryn. "It may be some time before I can find a moment to inform the Revered Mother. And who it this that you bring with you? One of your  _adventurers_?" There's an audible sneer in her enunciation of the word.

It seems the sister possesses that iron will, a resolve that would be more impressive if not coupled with such bloated self-importance. As Leliana opens her mouth to reply, Aryn lays a hand on her shoulder. She's heard enough. While she does not set much store by her rank and titles, she dislikes the woman's patronising attitude and her utter lack of respect for Leliana. "I believe I can speak for myself, Sister Leliana," she says softly.

Clarice arches an arrogant eyebrow. "Please do. I don't have all day."

"That much has been made apparent," Aryn replies coldly, drawing herself to her full height and stepping past Leliana. "Warden-Commander Aryn Cousland, Lady of the Royal Court of Ferelden, and heir presumptive to the Teyrnir of Highever. If the Revered Mother would like to hear of the death of the Archdemon, I can supply a personal testimony, as I was the one to kill it." She stares down at Clarice balefully. "Would it be asking too much for you not to waste any more of my time, Sister?"

Sister Clarice bobs a quick, flame-cheeked curtsey, then turns and hurries away, maintaining a precarious grip on her dignity. Aryn gives Leliana a sidelong look, and there's not a trace of amusement in the bard's expression, but sparkles of glee dance in her bright blue eyes. "Your bark is nearly as fearsome as your warhound's," she murmurs.

"She irritated me," Aryn shrugs. "I don't expect people to bow and scrape to me everywhere I go, but is common courtesy really too much to ask?"

"Sadly, yes," Leliana replies. "Not to make sweeping generalisations, but this is Orlais. The grand game confers influence on many, and that influence often breeds arrogance and contempt. It is a side to many people here that saddens me greatly."

"I take it this doesn't afflict your Mother Dorothea?"

"No, not at all," Leliana assures her. "Dorothea showed me great kindness when I was a worthless criminal. Clarice would not have soiled her robe even setting foot in the prison."

There's an anticipation in her voice that is unusual, and Aryn does not miss the slight tremor that ripples through her lover. Resuming her original stance, she rests her hand at the small of the bard's back to offer reassurance as they wait. "You've never been worthless," she murmurs. Leliana turns her head a little, enough to make eye contact, and smiles gratefully.

"Leliana!" An older woman, one Aryn guesses to be about her mother's age, emerges from the vestry and hurries across the hall to greet them, throwing her arms wide. Leliana steps forward, eagerly accepting the hug.

"Revered Mother, it's wonderful to see you again," she greets her mentor.

"And you, my dear." Dorothea cups Leliana's face in her hands, the way Aryn's great aunt used to do to her when she was a not-so-small child. "Let me look at you. Maker's grace, I was so relieved to receive your letter, to hear that you were safe and well. I worried so when I heard of the fate that befell Lothering."

"The Maker was watching over me, of that I have no doubt," Leliana replies earnestly.

"So it seems." Mother Dorothea smiles warmly as she releases the younger woman. "The Urn of Sacred Ashes? Maker's breath, I've never been so shocked in all my life. And yet somehow, your involvement in its discovery is no surprise to me."

"Ah, no, I was little more than a bystander. The true discoverer of the Ashes is here with me." Leliana turns to Aryn, holds out her hand. "Revered Mother, I want you to meet someone very dear to me. May I present Warden-Commander Aryn Cousland? Aryn, this is Revered Mother Dorothea, the woman who saved my life after Marjolaine betrayed me."

Aryn offers a deep, formal bow. "Then I have much to thank you for, Revered Mother. It is a pleasure to meet you. Leliana speaks of you often, with much affection."

Mother Dorothea looks her up and down, judging her with a sharp, intelligent gaze that once again calls Eleanor Cousland to mind. "I suspect I am the one who should be thanking you, my Lady," she remarks. "You are the Grey Warden who ended the Blight, are you not?"

"I am."

"Then on behalf of all those who reside in this parish, please accept my thanks for your courage and sacrifices in defence of the people. All Thedas owes you a great debt."

Aryn blushes at the unexpected compliment, and covers her embarrassment with a short bow. "It was my duty, Mother, and certainly not solely a victory of my making, but I thank you for your kind words."

"You're too modest," Leliana chides her.

"A fault which too few people suffer from, in my experience," Dorothea says with a smile. "But come, both of you. I want to hear more of the Sacred Ashes." She links her arm with Leliana's, beckons for Aryn to follow, and begins to walk toward the vestry, but before the Warden even takes a step, the door of the Chantry bangs open behind her. She jerks around, fingers reaching for her sword hilt, and relaxes as she takes in the livery of one of Ferelden's royal guardsmen. The man drops to one knee as he reaches her.

"Your pardon, my Lady, I was ordered to find you post-haste," he says breathlessly, offering Aryn a letter originally sealed with the crest of the Grey Wardens, and re-sealed with the royal crest. "Knight-Commander Cauthrien's compliments. This arrived for you five days after you left Denerim. His Majesty directed that it be brought to you with all speed."

"Thank you, ser," Aryn responds as she accepts the missive. "Are you commanded to wait for my reply?"

"Aye, my Lady. If it pleases you, I'll wait at the tavern by the harbour until you've composed your response."

"I'll find you when I need you, then, thank you," she dismisses him, turning to Leliana. "Go on ahead, if you like," she suggests. "This seems to be urgent. I'll attend to it then join you."

Dorothea nods, and beckons to the chastened Sister Clarice. "Sister, will you see the Commander provided with a desk, parchment, a quill and ink for her correspondence, please?"

"At once," the sister agrees. Aryn tosses Leliana a reassuring wink. Whatever's in the letter can't be good; the effort of getting the message to her has not been lightly undertaken, but she's confident that come what may, they'll be able to handle it.

**OoOoO**

Leliana follows Dorothea into the vestry, disquieted by the sudden interruption. Things that demand Aryn's immediate attention are rarely trivial – miracle cures, blights, archdemons, and kingmaking leap to mind.  _What could possibly have gone wrong now_ , she wonders. The Blight is gone, Alistair is proving to be as popular a monarch with his subjects as his father,even if some of his nobles are still unsure, and he is safely married to his new queen. Leliana grins at the thought – Bann Alfstanna had been shocked beyond speech at the proposal, but she's a perfect match for Alistair, intelligent, light-hearted and a proven leader who can help him rule wisely and well, especially now that Anora has been quietly packed off to a live of idle luxury in Cumberland.

She shrugs off her concern as the Revered Mother bids her take a seat by the desk. Whatever it is, Aryn will tell her as soon as she can. She settles into the chair, angling it slightly so that she can see the door. Old habits die hard.

Dorothea smiles wryly at the movement. "You haven't forgotten your training, then?"

"I've had occasion to polish most of my old skills of late," Leliana agrees carefully. "Fighting darkspawn for survival can make concern for the state of one's soul somewhat more academic than in normal times."

"I don't doubt it," Dorothea replies, her gaze seeming to weigh Leliana as she studies her. "You seem happy, if I might make so bold. Far happier than your last letter from Lothering would have suggested."

Leliana sighs. "I was not myself in Lothering," she admits. "For a time I desperately wanted to be – I wanted that life to be my true desire – but it seems I am not suited to a life of quiet contemplation. When you found me, when you helped me, it was certainly the right thing for me, but now… well, the Maker moves in mysterious ways, no?"

"I've always found that to be so, yes. And I am not surprised you felt restless – you needed time and space to grieve and heal, but I never imagined you remaining hidden away in Lothering forever. You have too much boldness in your spirit for that." Dorothea glances toward the door. "Your Grey Warden friend – she recruited you to fight with her?"

"I didn't give her much choice." Leliana chuckles at the memory of Aryn's polite incredulity when she'd announced her intention to join the wardens' party. "I volunteered, and she was too well-mannered to refuse me." She meets Dorothea's gaze steadily, hearing the true question beneath the words. She has nothing to hide, so she answers it. "And she is not simply my friend, Revered Mother. Aryn and I are lovers."

Dorothea nods. "That much is apparent. In her bearing, at any rate, even if you are more guarded." She tilts her head thoughtfully to one side. "So do you know what you will do, now that the Blight is defeated?"

"No," Leliana admits. "Aryn is to take command of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. For the moment, I have no plans beyond staying with her. She needs me."

"And if I should need you, someday soon?" Dorothea asks quietly. "If I should call upon you to serve the Maker?"

"If I am called to serve the Maker, I will seek her agreement before making any commitment," Leliana states bluntly. "And I will take no vows that prevent me from being with her or returning to her."

"Leliana…"

"No, Revered Mother, I do not want to hear it. I do not want to hear that life does not always grant you your heart's desire. I know that all too well." Leliana looks the older woman firmly in the eye. "I owe you my life, and for the sake of that debt, should you have need of me, I will serve. But I will not pledge my life unreservedly to the Maker."

Dorothea looks at her for a long moment. "You care so much for her?"

"I love her," Leliana states simply.

"As you loved Marjolaine?"

Once, not so very long ago, that barb would have held the power to wound. Now, Leliana can simply shrug it off. "No. I idolized Marjolaine, and it blinded me to her true nature." She purses her lips, choosing her words carefully. "Aryn is… my refuge. She makes me feel safe and cherished, in a manner I have never experienced. She does not seek to use me. And she trusts me, whole-heartedly."

Dorothea arches a sceptical eyebrow. "And you know this how?"

"She allows me to see her fears and her pain," Leliana asserts, an edge of protectiveness creeping into her tone. The memories of the Blight, the nightmares, the agony, the dark terror in Aryn's eyes, will not soon fade from her mind. "I have seen her stripped to the very core of her soul, as you have seen me. You know yourself that leaves little room for subterfuge or doubt."

Dorothea nods placidly. "I do. Forgive me, Leliana, I do not mean to slight her, nor your choice. I simply wish that you not be hurt again as Marjolaine hurt you."

Leliana sighs. "You are kind, Mother, but you need not fear that. I am not so naïve as to say Aryn will never hurt me, but I know she would never seek to do so intentionally, and that is what matters. Besides, the gain of her love, and mine, as we have them now, far outweighs the risks of the unknown future."

Dorothea smiles. "You've grown a lot since we last spoke, Leliana. I'm proud of you." She sighs pensively. "But let us return to the matter at hand before your warden concludes her business. I may not need you right now, but one day soon, Maker willing, I will call for you. Beatrix is failing; her age is catching up with her, and I am increasingly in her council and her confidences, a situation helped immeasurably, I must confess, by your letter regarding Andraste's ashes. For which you have my gratitude from perspectives personal, political, and pious."

Leliana blinks at her, shock washing through her as she reaches the suddenly obvious conclusion. "You intend to be the next Divine?" she asks softly. She knows Dorothea to be ambitious – her dealings with Marjolaine were proof enough of that – but this is a bold move, even so.

"I do," Dorothea says simply, approval in her steely gaze. "You've not let your political wits become dulled, I see. Mother Evangeline and Seeker Pentaghast have come to trust me; I will have their backing come the time, as well as Lord Seeker Lambert's and Grand Cleric Elthina's, and I am working to secure the support of the remaining Free Marcher cities, Nevarra, Antiva, and Ferelden. This is an opportunity I do not intend to pass up." She spread her hands in a gesture of earnest appeal. "The Chantry needs to change, Leliana. The way we treat people born to wield magic is shameful, as is the lot of the elves in the Alienages. I would see the Chantry embrace all the Maker's children as equals. But to make that change, to really and truly build a lasting legacy, I will need allies of strong faith. Champions of the just, with the will to weather the storm and to stand for what is right, as you have done in this Blight." She meets Leliana's gaze with calm determination. "I will need a skilled and subtle Left Hand."

Leliana's jaw drops as she realises what Dorothea has just offered. "Me? Left Hand of the Divine? You can't be serious!"

"Never more," Dorothea rebuts her. "Marjolaine taught you well, and I have seen for myself how talented you are at this kind of work. You have the abilities, the aptitude, the belief to aid me in reforming the Chantry, building a faith that gives love and hope to all, to try to make right what has been corrupted by the hearts and minds of humankind."

Leliana stares at her, thoughts whirling, but before she can pursue any of them, the door scrapes open and Aryn steps in. The grim, pensive expression on her face tells Leliana louder than a scream that something is amiss. "Aryn? Is everything all right?"

Aryn nods curtly. "Well enough." She forces a smile. "It will keep, Leliana, don't worry. I'm sorry for interrupting."

Dorothea gestures to a free chair. "Make yourself comfortable, Commander, you're not interrupting in the slightest. Leliana, please… think on all that I've said. But now, I implore you both – tell me everything you know of the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

**OoOoO**

It's late by the time they take their leave of Dorothea, leading their horses slowly down the path to Valence's sole inn, a shack by the harbour barely worthy of the name. They don't speak until they're comfortably ensconced in their room, after Aryn has dispatched Alistair's guardsman with her reply to the King's message and Leliana has arranged for a cold supper of bread and cheese to be brought to them. "What's wrong?" Leliana asks as they settle to their meal.

Aryn sighs, picking at the crust of her bread. "The wardens sent from Orlais to rebuild the order have made landfall in Amaranthine, and are heading for Vigil's Keep. It's a little sooner than I anticipated, I'll admit, but that's not what's bothering me." She hands Leliana the letter. "Alistair's added a few lines."

Leliana scans down the page until she reaches the lines scrawled in the King's sloppy penmanship.

 

_Aryn,_

_Sorry, sorry, sorry._

_Blast it, I was in two minds about sending this on to you. I was just going to wait – you've earned a rest, Maker knows – but three hours after this came in I received a report of a darkspawn band wiping out one of the regiments I sent out to deal with them. As long as they were running away, they were easy pickings, but it seems they've been insolent enough to start fighting back, and now they're raiding villages all over the coastlands. Sadly, I don't think the cushions of the throne are deeply enough imprinted with the shape of my backside for me to let the Orlesian wardens lead the charge against them without you – Anora will be back here screaming about treason before you can say "sense of entitlement" for one thing, and I think we can all do without that special brand of excitement in our lives._

_Anyway, long story short – I need you to come home. The faster the better. And if Leliana's going to kill me for ruining your trip, I'm at least comforted by the fact I'll never see it coming, and it'll cure all of my headaches in one fell... swoop._

_With profound apologies for pulling rank (and the full and certain expectation that you will wallop me black and blue on the training field in retribution),_

_Alistair_

 

Leliana giggles as she hands the letter back. "I know it's a serious issue, but Maker, it's just so… Alistair, isn't it?"

Aryn chuckles ruefully. "It is." Her smile fades quickly. "I'm sorry, Leliana, I'm going to have to go home."

"I know," the bard agrees.

Unspoken between them is Dorothea's invitation to Val Royeaux, to tell the tale of the Ashes to the Divine herself. It's a golden opportunity… but Leliana will spurn it if Aryn asks that she accompany her back to Ferelden.

The warden looks at Leliana for a long moment, then offers an encouraging smile. "You should go to Val Royeaux with Dorothea. I know you would love to see it again."

"There's plenty of time for that," Leliana waves the remark away. "Val Royeaux will always be there."

"But the chance to meet the Divine is a very rare one, I would imagine."

"Yes," Leliana admits, "that's true." She looks away for a moment, steeling her courage. "But even that might not be so rare, in future. Dorothea told me… she is likely to become the next Divine. She wanted to know… if I would serve, when the time comes. Personally, as one of her closest advisors."

Aryn does not quite tense, but Leliana sees the restrained impulse ripple through the warrior's body. "And you would want to?"

"Yes, and no," Leliana sighs. "I'm conflicted, torn. I owe her my life, and it's a debt I feel I must honour. And the opportunity to do something to change the Chantry, help make life better for the mages, as she wants to, comes but once in a lifetime."

Aryn nods slowly. "I can understand that. But working for the Divine… that would mean you would have to live in Val Royeaux?"

"Yes, that would be almost certain, though I'm sure there would be travelling." Leliana looks away again, feeling tears threaten. "And there is my conflict. I don't want to be parted from you." It's too soon, far too soon to be having this conversation. The Blight is barely six months past.

There's a scrape of wood on wood, and Aryn's kneeling by her side suddenly, looking up at her. "Hey," she says softly, "she's not the Divine yet. And for all that she may desire the post, even be campaigning for it, it's not a simple inheritance – someone else could be elected. So let's not worry about it now," she pleads. "We'll deal with that future if it befalls us." She reaches up and presses her thumb against Leliana's chin, tilting her head down. "You should go with her. Meet the Divine, see Val Royeaux, remember your time there. All I'll be doing instead is slaughtering darkspawn, and that's  _so_  last season."

Leliana giggles, her humour rapidly finding purchase in her brightening mood. "Only one season behind is an improvement for you, no?" she jokes, and Aryn chuckles.

"Your good influence, I'm sure." She offers a wink. "I'll come with you next time, and you'll remember so much more that you can tell me for having seen it again more recently."

Leliana's heart swells with affection, and she cups her warden's face in her hands. "I love you," she asserts, placing a gentle kiss against the warrior's silk-soft lips. "You're as thoughtful as you are brave."

"And you're as beautiful as you are deadly," Aryn grins, pulling her in for another, less chaste kiss. "Which reminds me, didn't you say something about claiming your spoils, earlier?"

Leliana grins back as she rests her forehead against her lover's. "I did. And as my prize, I think I'd like you to remind me of why I so enjoy your wicked tongue."

Aryn rises to her feet, scooping Leliana easily out of her chair. "Your wish is my command, my lady fair."


End file.
